Burnout
by MooseOnARoof
Summary: Wilson takes the death of a young patient rather badly. Rated T for rather depressing theme


_Don't own the characters. Though in many of my dreams I have been a rich woman so maybe I do and I don't realise it. Who knows. Either way I don't want to be sued. _

_A/N- One-shot written when I should have been working on an essay. Nevermind._

_Wilson takes the death of a young patient rather badly. No character death so don't worry. Enjoy :D_

* * *

Another day and another death. The Oncology patient conveyor belt was moving once again. A new patient would arrive tomorrow and another one would depart. Same old, same old.

Wilson slowly stirred his coffee as he took his place on a cushioned seat in the cafeteria. It was seven in the evening. His shift had finished a half hour ago but paperwork and discussions with the deceased patient's family had made him late to finish. Not that he cared; he had nothing to do with his time outside of the hospital apart from drink with House, watch a bad movie with House or sit on his own in his apartment watching endless re-runs of cop shows he had already seen.

An evening with House was already vetoed by the fact House was going on a date with Cuddy. He told House would happily be on standby if it all went horribly wrong but Wilson knew they were made for each other. It would go well. They would end up having sex and he would end up hearing about Cuddy's ass and tits tomorrow morning in some crude and blunt recital, laced with bizarre metaphors and graphic detail.

Wilson took a careful sip of his coffee. The heat burned the tip of his tongue as he spluttered at the distinct lack of sugar. He was sure he had put in his usual four sugars. He begrudgingly headed to the till and asked for another two packets of sugar. After uttering his thanks he sat back down at his seat and poured the sugar into coffee before giving it another stir. He leaned on his hand and took another sip. This time is was much more to his taste.

He gazed off into the distance. From his seat could see the foyer and the entrance to the clinic. It was like a beehive, even at this time of the evening, with patients and staff flitting and buzzing in and out at an alarming rate. One face caught his attention. A blonde 30-something with red stained cheeks and bloodshot eyes was being escorted out of the clinic doors by Cuddy. It was the mother of of Wilson's recently deceased patient. He watched as the woman shook Cuddy's hand and mouthed a thank you. The woman trudged towards the exit, wiping her eyes with a crumpled tissue.

He bowed his head. He couldn't bear to look at her face again; he had seen it enough times over these past five months. She had been constantly in and out of the hospital visiting her terminally ill daughter. Wilson had seen all the pain, grief, anger, sorrow and guilt etched on the woman's face and he had felt it too. It was hard not to, particularly in his branch of medicine. His concentration was fixed so firmly on the swirling shapes his was making in his mug that he didn't notice Cuddy approaching from his right hand side. He jumped went he felt a warm feminine hand place itself on his shoulder.

"Hey." Cuddy smiled sympathetically. "You OK?"

Wilson shrugged and waved a hand. "I guess. It happens. I'm used to it." He looked up and met Cuddy's gaze. His eyes never lied and it was obvious to Cuddy that he wasn't OK.

"Are you sure? Because I know it's worse when there are children involved. I don't want you beating yourself up over something that is not worth beating yourself up over."

Wilson placed his hand on Cuddy's. "I'm fine. I just need some strong coffee and I'll be fine." He took a sip of his coffee and smiled weakly.

Cuddy nodded slowly, not at all convinced by Wilson's answers. "Well if it makes you feel better her mother told me to tell you thank you again and that they would like you to attend the funeral."

_Great_. He hated going to ex-patient's funerals. The whole experience just reminded him of his own failures but he would end up going out of pure courtesy as always.

"And she also told me to give you this." Cuddy handed Wilson a yellow envelope.

He took it from her grasp and placed it on the table. Another 'Thank you' card to put with the collection. "Thanks."

Cuddy looked at the silver clock hanging on the wall of the cafeteria. "I've gotta go and so have you. Go home and get some sleep." She gave Wilson a friendly peck on the cheek. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Mmm." Wilson waved as Cuddy bustled her way through the foyer and back to her office. He gulped down the rest of his coffee and fiddled with the yellow envelope Cuddy had left in his possession.

Bed. That's where he wanted to be. Curled up in a ball, stuffed to the gills with potato chips and weak beer. Lamenting the senseless loss of life he saw everyday he went to work. Bemoaning the extreme human pain he would encounter and battle against every time he stuck his foot through the doors of this hospital. Sometimes he felt it was worth it, especially when he had pulled someone back from the brink. But these moments of joy and comfort were seriously outweighed by those moments of woe and heartache where another human being slipped from his grasp and became just another casualty on the ward.

Wilson snapped up the envelope and slid it into his pocket. He then grabbed his jacket and headed out to his car.

* * *

Wilson didn't get home until around eight thirty after taking a wrong turn at a junction he had driven through many time before. He had ended up driving through some dirty looking suburbs before altering his satellite navigation system to find his way home.

After flinging his jacket onto the back of his couch, Wilson went into his fridge and grabbed a cold beer before lying back on his bed.

It was days like today which made him wonder whether or not he had chosen the right profession. Did he have the character? Did he have the constitution? Did he have the ability to distance himself from his patients? Since he had decided to take up Oncology as a career, he had been convincing himself that the answers to those questions were all affirmative. Yes, he did have the character. Yes, he did have the constitution. Yes, he could distance himself. But every time he was tested on those three points he failed. He would always get too close to patients and end up wallowing in a concoction of guilt, blame and self-pity.

He leaned over the side of the bed and put his beer on the floor.

Six years old. It wasn't fair. When Wilson was six he had played baseball with the fat kid who lived at the bottom of his street, not throwing up in a hospital bed and losing hair. He felt guilty every time a young child was admitted. Guilty because he had passed his through his childhood with only a small case of chickenpox and a few bad colds. The kids that he was treating were going through pain unimaginable to some.

Catherine. That was her name. Six years old with terminal bone cancer. When Wilson says that to himself it doesn't make any sense. How can you be dying when you have barely lived? Wilson had learned that death, or more specifically cancer, doesn't care for age, gender, race, whether you have two kids or none, whether you have a close family or not, whether you have friends, whether you are good person or a bad person. It hits people at random regardless of any sort of status. Wilson sometimes felt he couldn't handle the irrationality of it all. This was one of those time.

He sighed loudly and ran his hands hard over his face. He reached down to the back of his trousers and pulled out the yellow envelope which he had refused to open until now. He peeled open the crinkled flap on the top of the envelope and expected to find a generic looking 'Thank you' card with a bear or flowers on the front. Instead he found a slip of paper folded over twice. Sitting up in his bed, he unfurled the thin, crunchy paper. It was a handwritten letter in purple crayon. Wilson smirked as he noticed the wonky looking writing which seemed to be heading in a steady upwards gradient to the other end of the page. He noticed the smudged letters which was reminiscent of his own written work. Left handers always smudged pen and crayon.

_Docter Wilsen. Thankyou for beeing miy docter. You have been nice and stuf. My mom tinks you ar nice to. Thankyou for mayking me feel bettur. From Cat. :)_

Wilson placed his hand over his mouth and stifled that hard lump at the back of his throat that was urging him to cry. His efforts were in vain as the day's disappointment and pain which had been building up came flooding out in one huge burst.

He slowly slid off the end of his bed onto the floor. He sat legs out straight in front of him with his back on the bed. He couldn't move, he couldn't speak. All he could do was cry. He wanted to get up and drink some more beer or at least get in a more comfortable position but his body wouldn't let him. He sat helplessly on the floor, continuing to cry into his already damp hands.

And that's when it hit him. He couldn't do this any more. He couldn't keep exposing himself to this amount of pressure. He couldn't keep fighting his own belief that he wasn't suited for the job. His body was tired. His mind was tired. Every last ounce of hope and belief he possessed had been sucked right out of him.

Wilson managed to prop himself up and stagger back into his living room. He grabbed his jacket and checked his watch. 21:03. That it would take him about half an hour to get where he wanted to go and that was more than enough time. He snatched his keys off the coffee table and buttoned up his jacket to protect himself from the cold.

* * *

Wilson made sure his car was securely locked before making his way into the bus station. As he passed into the entrance, he tossed his car keys into a bin that hung on the wall. He approached the ticket booth hesitantly, taking deep breaths with each step. When he got to the front he flipped open his wallet and produced a wad of notes.

"Bus ticket please." He placed the notes on the desk.

The woman behind the plastic divider widened her eyes at the sight of the mound of cash. "Um... where is it you're wanting to go?"

"Anywhere. I don't care. What's the furthest you go at this time of night?"Wilson rubbed his eyes in agitation. He must have looked rough and quite frightening to the young woman serving him. He tried patting down his hair to make him look a more amiable proposition.

"OK. We have a bus departing to Maine in about twenty minutes."

"I'll take it. How much?"

"Sixty dollars sir."

Wilson counted out his sixty dollars and pushed them under the divider in exchange for a one way ticket to Maine. "Thank you."

He turned quickly on his heels and headed towards the bench near his stop. An old lady smiled at him as he took his seat on the cold blue bench. He smiled back as best he could without looking pained.

He ran both of his hands through his hair and sighed. So this is what it felt like. This it what it felt like to burnout.

* * *

A/N _See no death. Hope you enjoyed._


End file.
